Cemetery Dance (36 page)

The door was equally impossible: immobile and immensely strong. There was no lock on the inside, or even a keyhole: it was probably bolted and padlocked on the far side. There was a small window in the door, barred on the inside, with a metal shutter that remained closed and locked. The room was so silent, it was clearly underground and soundproof.

This left only one option: overpower her jailer when he returned. To do that, she had to have a plan. And she had to have a weapon.

She thought first of the rusty hooks in the walls and ceiling; but they were of thick iron and too strong to work loose or break off. Even the bucket had no handle. She had her hands, feet, nails, and teeth to use as weapons. They would have to do.

He needed her alive, as least for now. Why? He had to prove to someone that she was alive. Was it for ransom? Possibly. Or was it to serve as a hostage? There was no way to know. She only knew that, once he had what he needed, he would kill her.

Simple.

She marveled at her own calmness. Why wasn't she more afraid? That was simple, too. After Bill's death, there was nothing left to fear. The worst had already occurred.

She sat up, did thirty sit–ups to get her blood flowing. The sudden exercise, combined with the lack of food and the concussion, made her momentarily dizzy. But when her head cleared, she felt more alert than ever.

A plan. Could she could feign sickness, draw him into the room, pretend to be unconscious — and then attack? But that wouldn't work: it was a lame trick, and he wouldn't fall for it.

His next appearance might be to kill her. She had to make sure that, when her jailer returned, he couldn't just execute her with a shot through the door slot. No; she would have to position herself such that he'd need to open the door and step inside if he wanted to kill her. That place was obviously behind the door. The darkness would be her ally. When he came in — that would be her only moment. She had to be ready to explode into action. She would go straight for the eyes. This was the man who had killed her husband — she was sure of it. She allowed her hatred for him to fill her with energy.

She began running through the steps in her mind, previsualizing the door opening, her leap, his falling back, her thumbs in his eyes. And then she would go for his gun, pull it, and kill him …

A sound interrupted her, a tiny sound, unidentifiable. Like a cat she leapt to the far side of the door and crouched in the dark, placing one foot forward, balancing herself almost like a runner in blocks, preparing to spring. She heard a padlock unlocking, a heavy bolt shooting back. The door opened slightly and a dim light fell across the floor. The door hit her foot and stopped.

"Movie time," said the voice. "I'm coming in." The light from the camcorder switched on, illuminating her cell in a brilliant white light that temporarily blinded her. She waited, tensing, struggling to focus her eyes.

The bright light suddenly swung around the door, shining directly in her face. She lunged at it, thumbs grasping and stiffening toward her captor's head. But the dazzling light blinded her and with a grunt the man caught her wrists in a vise–like grip, dropping the light. She felt herself wrenched aside with great force and thrown to the floor, kicked hard in the stomach. The light had clattered to the floor but the man immediately swept it up again and retreated a couple of steps.

She stared up from the floor, gasping, trying to recover her breath. The light focused on her afresh, the lens beneath winking; the man behind remained completely invisible in the dark. Again the unbearable thought flashed through her mind: This is the man who murdered my husband.

With a shuddering intake of air she rose and ran once again at the man behind the light, clawing at him, but he was ready. A blow struck the side of her head and the next thing she knew she was lying on the floor, her ears ringing afresh, points of light dancing across her field of vision.

The video light blinked off; the figure withdrew; the door began to close. Nora struggled to her knees, suddenly weak, her head pounding, but the bolt shot home before she could stand. She grasped the door, hauled herself painfully upward.

"You're a dead man," she gasped, pounding her fist on the door. "I swear I'll kill you."

"It's vice versa, you little vixen," came the voice. "Expect me — soon."

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 59

D'Agosta stood in the back of the squad room, arms folded across his chest, staring at the rows of seated officers before him, listening as Harry Chislett magisterially briefed the troops about the impending "parade event" — that's how the pompous prick referred to it — about to take place outside the Ville. Parade, my ass, thought D'Agosta impatiently. Just because Esteban and Plock had secured a parade permit didn't mean they were planning to march past the Ville with measured pace singing "Give Peace a Chance." D'Agosta had seen how ugly that first crowd had grown, and how quickly. Chislett hadn't — he'd left practically before the damn protest started. And now here he was, gesturing grandly at diagrams on a whiteboard, talking about protection, crowd control, and various tactical nuances as calmly as if he were mapping out a DAR cotillion.

As he listened to the lame plans unfold, D'Agosta felt his hands balling into fists. He'd tried to explain to Chislett that there was a good chance Nora Kelly was being held by the Ville, and that any outburst of violence from the protesters might mean her death. There was more to this than logistics; with any large crowd, violence and mob mentality were a mere heartbeat away. Nora Kelly's life might hang in the balance. But the deputy chief didn't see it that way. "The burden of proof rests on your shoulders," he'd intoned pompously. "Where's your evidence that Nora Kelly is in the Ville?" It was all D'Agosta could do not to sink his fist in the man's adipose tissue.

"We'll have three control points, here, here, and here," Chislett intoned, with another tap of his pointer. "Two at the central nodes of ingress and egress, one at the entrance to Inwood Hill Park. Chain of command will flow from those down to the forward field positions."

"Allemande left with your left hand," D'Agosta muttered to himself. "Right to your partner, right and left grand."

"It does seem that Deputy Chief Chislett is rather missing the point," said a familiar voice at his elbow.

D'Agosta turned to see Pendergast standing beside him. "Good afternoon, Vincent," the agent drawled.

"What are you doing here?" D'Agosta asked in surprise.

"I came looking for you."

"Where's your pal, Bertin?"

"He has retreated to the safety of the back bayou. It's just you and me once again."

D'Agosta felt a surge of hope go through him — something he hadn't felt in days. At least Pendergast understood the gravity of the situation. "Then you know we can't wait any longer," he said. "We have to get the hell in there and rescue Nora, now."

"I quite agree."

"If that riot takes place while Nora's being held in the Ville, there's a good chance she'll be killed immediately."

"Again, I would agree — assuming she is at the Ville."

"Assuming? Where else could she be? I had the soundprint on the video analyzed."

"I'm aware of that," Pendergast said. "The experts didn't seem to agree with you that it was an animal."

"Then to hell with the experts. I can't take this waiting anymore. I'm going in."

Pendergast nodded, as if he'd expected this. "Very well. But one thing, Vincent — we must not divide our strength. The Ville is involved in some way, yes. But how? That is the puzzle. There's something going on here I don't yet have a finger on — something that feels wrong to me."

"You're damn right it's wrong. Nora Kelly is about to die."

The special agent shook his head. "That's not what I mean. Do I have your word, Vincent — we do this together?"

D'Agosta looked at him. "You got it."

"Excellent. My car is waiting downstairs."

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 60

Richard Plock stood across from the parking lot of the 207th Street Subway Yard, looking out over the serried ranks of train cars parked in the glow of the late–afternoon sun. The yard was quiet, almost somnolent: a workman picked his way across the tracks and disappeared into the blacksmith's shop; an engineer slowly ferried a line of cars onto a siding beside the inspection shed.

Plock looked up and down the street beyond the fence. West 215th Street was quiet, too. He grunted his satisfaction, glanced at his watch: six fifteen.

One of the color–coded cell phones in his jacket pocket began to ring. He pulled it out, noticed it was the red one. That would be Traum, over at the Cloisters.

He flipped it open. "Give me an update."

"They've been arriving for the last twenty minutes or so."

"How many so far?"

"Two hundred, maybe two fifty."

"Good. Keep them thinned out, looking as disorganized as possible. We don't want to tip our hand prematurely."

"Got it."

"Keep the updates coming. We'll be moving out in fifteen minutes." Plock gently closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket. It was almost time for him to join his own unit, which was gathering on the south side of the subway yard.

He was aware he looked like nobody's idea of a born leader. And if he admitted it to himself, he lacked a leader's charisma, as well. But he had the passion, the conviction — and that's what mattered most. The fact was, people had underestimated him all his life. They'd underestimate him today, too.

Rich Plock was counting on that.

Since the first, abortive rally, Plock had been ceaselessly at work, covertly reaching out to organizations across the city, the state, and even the country, assembling the most zealous group of people for the evening's action that he could. And now it was all about to come to fruition. Over two dozen different organizations — Humans for Other Animals, Vegan Army, Amnesty Without Borders, The Green Brigade — were converging on the West Side at that very moment. And it wasn't just vegetarians and animal sympathizers anymore: the killing of the two journalists and the city official, along with the kidnapping of Nora Kelly, had galvanized people in a remarkable way. With that publicity in hand, Plock had coaxed a few fringe groups with truly serious agendas to come out of the woodwork. Some, in fact, would normally have viewed one another with suspicion — for example, Guns Universal and Reclaim America were now involved — but thanks to Plock's incendiary rhetoric, they had all found a common enemy in the Ville.

Plock was taking no chances. He'd choreographed everything perfectly. In order to avoid being prematurely dispersed or bottled up by the cops, the various groups were congregating in ten different pre–arranged spots: Wien Stadium, the Dyckman House, High Bridge Park. That way, they wouldn't attract too much official attention … until Plock gave the order and they all merged smoothly into one. And by that point, it would be too late to stop them. There would be no more backing down — not this time.

As he recalled the first rally, Plock's face hardened. In retrospect, it was a very good thing that Esteban funked out. The man had outlived his usefulness. He'd done what needed to be done: acted as celebrity figurehead, increased their visibility, given them badly needed funds which had empowered Plock to gather a force sufficient for this job. If Esteban had been around today, he would probably advise caution, remind everybody that there was no proof a hostage was involved, no proof that the Ville was behind the killings.

Esteban's weak stomach had undercut their last action — but by God it wouldn't undercut this one. The Ville would be stopped, once and for all. The wanton cruelty, the murder of helpless animals, and the killing of journalists sympathetic to their cause would never happen again.

Plock had grown up on a farm in northern New Hampshire. Every year, as a young boy, he'd gotten physically sick when the time came to slaughter the lambs and hogs. His father had never understood, beating him and calling him a shirker, a mama's boy, when he tried to avoid helping. He'd been too small to fight back. He remembered watching his dad decapitate a chicken with a hand ax and then laugh as the luckless bird danced a strange, faltering tattoo in the dusty lane, blood shooting from the severed neck. The image had haunted his dreams ever since. His father insisted on eating their own animals, meat with every dinner, and demanded that Rich eat his fair share. When Plock's favorite pet pig was killed, his father forced him to eat her greasy ribs; he snuck out afterward and vomited endlessly behind the barn. The very next day, Plock had left home. He didn't even bother to pack, just took his few books — Brave New World, Atlas Shrugged, 1984 — and pointed his feet south.

And never looked back. His father had given him no love, no support, no teaching — nothing.

That's not quite true, he thought, his mind turning to the Ville. His father had taught him one thing. He'd taught him to hate.

Another of his cell phones began to ring. It was the blue phone: McMoultree, outside Yeshiva University. As Plock went to answer it, he saw a curious thing: a Lincoln Town Car, tearing up Tenth Avenue on its way northward, a medic in full emergency gear at the wheel. But the phone was still ringing, and he stared after it for only a moment. Clearing his throat quietly, Plock opened the cell phone and pressed it confidently against his ear.

Cemetery Dance

Chapter 61

The Rolls coasted to a stop at the end of West 218th Street, pulling into a parking place between a shabby panel truck and a late–model Jeep. To their left sat a line of undistinguished low–rise co–ops; to their right lay the green oval of Columbia's Baker Field. Roughly two hundred people were scattered around the field and bleachers, seemingly disorganized, but D'Agosta felt sure they were part of the imminent protest. He'd seen similar suspicious groups as they drove through Inwood. The gloriously ignorant Chislett was about to find himself out of his depth.

"We'll head in laterally, through Isham Park," Pendergast said, grabbing a canvas bag from the rear seat.